and the story continues
by atlasky
Summary: But the memory of his laughter dances in her mind and she can't pretend the thought of him is not in every little thing she sees. [Prompt fill for deadlyromanova and jaedumb]


**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

**Author's note:** For plot-hole reasons, they didn't encounter the Winter Soldier. Sorry about that. It killed me too. Prompt fill for deadlyromanova and jaedumb —I don't know if this is what you guys are looking for but I just want to say thank you for making me finish something that has been rotting in my laptop since forever. And I hope you'll enjoy this, sorry if you're disappointed. Leave me a review and tell me what you think? : )

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**and the story continues**

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_So here's the thing_, Fury says as he pulls her away from the eyes of the public and into a small secluded room she has never been into before. _I need you to do me a favor_.

He's not asking, she knows. Here is the man who has helped Clint with her second chance.

She nods. It's the least she can do after everything this man has done.

When she hears the plan, her blood runs cold.

_Are you sure you're still in this, agent?_

_Yes._

_._

Shield is Hydra, Hydra is Shield. They don't know where one begins and the other one ends. She thinks she is supposed to be angry. She knows she is supposed to be angry. And yet the first thing that crosses her mind is: _This is going to kill Steve_.

He has given his life, his everything, for nothing. If he finds out, somehow—

Somehow she's convinced it's going to destroy him.

He can't find out about this. Not if she can help it. She knows though, that he will find out eventually. The truth will come out and she doesn't want to think about what it's going to do to him. But right now, when there is still something she can do about it, he's not going to find out. She will make sure of it.

Fury has a plan and it will help them bring down Hydra. It _will_ bring down Hydra.

If they're lucky, they can do it secretly. If they're lucky, _Shield will come out unharmed_, Fury says. But to do that, they need someone undercover to gain Intel. Someone who's good at what they do, someone they can trust. She's surprised he chose her. She knows she is one of the best in their line of work, but the part about someone trustworthy takes her aback.

_What makes you sure I'm someone you can trust?_

Fury looks at her and she regrets asking him. _Because you have something to lose now._

She doesn't give him a reply. He doesn't need one.

They both know he's right.

.

The night before she goes, she runs her fingers through his hair and breathes. _Steve_, she says. He peeks a bleary eye open, half asleep. There is a question in his gaze. All her resolve almost breaks down. She almost tells him. It is now or never.

"We can go to that café you've been talking about tomorrow," he murmurs when he senses she's not going to say anything soon. That's always his way to distract her from whatever unpleasant thought he knows is plaguing her mind—talk about something mindless and easy. It works most of the time. It doesn't work now. It only makes her feel more guilty for what she's about to do. He tugs her a little closer in his attempt to comfort her and closes his eyes again into the lulling temptation of slumber.

"I can't," she replies, there is a churning in her gut. She doesn't remember ever feeling this anxious. "I have a mission, remember?"

He grunts. "After that, then?"

"Okay."

She goes with never.

_._

Faking your death is surprisingly easy.

All they need are a fake accident in a remote place in Asia so that it seems realistic enough, fake reports about the mission, fake DNA results, and photographs of the remains of a corpse so badly burned it's unrecognizable. Hill helps her prepare everything with tremendous ease and they are done within a few hours.

Her death document is sealed neatly within a brown folder she can't help but to stare at it in disdain.

"It's not too late to turn back," Maria tells her as her fingers efficiently program the prosthetic mask for her cover.

She is tempted. But this is bigger than her and she's aware of it. This is bigger than her and Steve. Clint has told her once, during the beginning, that he too has mistakes to redeem. And the only way he can do it is by taking every chance to do goodness that is stumbling on his way. She remembers telling him that his principle is ridiculous. It haunts her now. She can't get it out of her head.

"I'm not turning back," she says to Maria as she inserts bullets into her gun. She's not.

"I know."

She is selfish.

She is doing this to stop Hydra. She is doing this to save Shield. She is doing this because she owes Fury everything. She is doing this because she wants to wipe the red out of her ledger. She is doing this because she is the best at what she does. She is doing this because she doesn't want to watch Steve realize he has lost everything for nothing.

Yet she knows she is selfish because this isn't right—that she should have told _him_, that there are many other ways they could have handled this. That she is trying to justify something wrong, fully aware of the massive consequences that will come with it. That she is betraying _him_ on purpose, and he will never forgive her because of it.

Maria wishes her luck even when they separate. It falls short, because it comes from her. It is not something either of them believes in.

Natasha wants to laugh.

.

She spends six months running around the world under a false name, with a thick accent and a fake face. Spends months gathering their intel, finding out who their moles are, assessing how far Hydra goes in Shield.

It becomes obvious, however, after two weeks in—that Shield cannot be saved. That this operation is useless, that they're wasting their time when they could have taken drastic measures to bring the whole thing down. She tells Fury this, but he won't hear the rest of it. Shield_ needs_ to be saved. She thinks she understands why he's so adamant about it.

The downside of this operation, though, she meets many friendly faces. She can't let her guard slip even the slightest bit. This is probably the most dangerous operation she has done since her Red Room days. She has never been so deep in her cover since then either.

There is a rule about this, she knows.

A rule to avoid getting sucked in into the persona and losing yourself.

It is the truth—that she didn't use to care about it. That she had nothing to lose—so might as well, right? Now though, there is something different. She doesn't want to lose herself. She doesn't—

She needs distance, she needs apathy. She needs to—

But the memory of his laughter dances in her mind and she can't pretend the thought of him is not in every little thing she sees.

_._

"We need you to come back."

It is a year later and she's standing in a bathroom stall with tainted ceramic floor and the burner phone pressed to her ear. Her lips are dry. She licks them unconsciously with her tongue. Hydra is down. Captain America had taken down Hydra with the help of Hawkeye and the rest of the Avengers. She wasn't there to help them.

She can't help but think what she has been doing is useless.

But Hydra is not down, though. Is it? Because their roots are too deep and she has infiltrated their ranks high enough to find out all of their plans. That they're not down, not yet. There are still leftovers, people whose loyalties are damning—the kinds of which they would do anything for. The dangerous kinds.

"I can't," she says to Fury. "They still have plans."

She refuses to think she is going home empty handed.

"Romanoff," she knows that tone, the one Fury uses when there is no room for argument. Dread sinks lower in her chest. She is going _home_. "You're an Avenger first, and we need you back here. Understood?"

Her back touches the wall. "I understand."

_._

And finally she learns that things cannot hurt you, if you don't let them close enough.

She hopes he'll give her shit for everything she has done. She hopes he'll lash out and be actually angry at her. Instead, when he sees her, his fingers still. It is quiet and uncharacteristically him.

"Rogers," she says, and pretends her heart isn't beating too fast in her chest.

He doesn't reprimand her, doesn't grab onto her arm like he did on the Lemurian star, doesn't even move or speak—he merely looks at her with eyes that are suddenly too tired and she hates him for that.

"What, no questions?"

She regrets speaking immediately when she feels the air around them shifts. He finally moves to shrug off his jacket. Breaking eye contact, he turns and walks into the kitchen without even acknowledging her. She knows she deserves it. It doesn't make it hurt any less. She follows him anyway. He's grabbing an empty glass from the top cupboard. The line of his back tenses when she steps into the kitchen.

He fills the glass halfway with tap water and drinks it in one quick motion. She watches. The silence hangs, filling the empty space between them with so many words she knows she will never say. She doesn't push him, doesn't prod. Waits for him to gather his thoughts. She can be patient. For him, she can. She owes him this.

When he speaks, his voice is dry and it's the first time she can't read him since forever. "Why?"

"Fury needed someone undercover in HYDRA."

He nods. "Okay."

She frowns. "That's it?

His jaw clenches and maybe it isn't as clean cut as she thinks. "What do you want me to say?"

She doesn't know the right thing to say to that. She's not going to ask for his forgiveness. She's aware she doesn't deserve it.

Here's something everyone knows about Steve Rogers. He's a good man, a good soldier, and he wears his heart on his sleeves most of the time. Here's something they don't know: he's pretty damn intimidating when he's angry.

His lips curl down and his shoulders are stiff. "Do you have any idea what you—," he pauses, takes a breath, as if he's trying to bottle up all the hurt and rage the past year has cost him. She doesn't want him to do that. They've been partners and friends and then something else entirely. She deserves his anger and hatred.

"I know."

His eyes flash. "Do you? Do you even know how crazy you made all of us when we heard— Clint was so—" _Do you have any idea what I've been through?_

"I'm sorry," she tells him. And she is— she is so very sorry.

"I can't do this right now," he says. He clenches the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles turning white. She doesn't remember seeing him this upset either.

"Steve—"

"Natasha," he lets out a shaky breath, the first sign of a cracking composure with something other than anger. It tears at her heart. "_Please_."

She swallows. Nods. Leaves.

Her hands are trembling but she is numb.

.

"Fuck."

"Nice to see you too, Barton."

"Fuck."

"Are you going to let me in?"

.

It is a whole month until their paths cross again.

She stays over at Clint's and pays for the groceries because according to him it's the only way she can make up for being a shitty friend. He doesn't let her out of his sight during the first few days though, and it speaks volumes for him.

_("Have you seen him?" Clint asked her a few hours after she had showed up on his doorstep._

"_Yeah."_

"_He was a wreck," he said. She flinched. Clint has never been one to soften up the blow. He looked at her with gray eyes that have always been too wise. "We all were.")_

She spends two weeks helping Stark and Hill to fill in the gaps in their knowledge about Hydra so she's always at the Stark tower. She can't pretend she isn't hoping to catch a glimpse of Steve every time. But Steve is _Steve_, and he can be as stubborn as hell. If he wants to avoid her, he will. She tells herself she is giving him space. It is the least she can do.

During the last week of December, someone leaves them an anonymous tip about a Hydra raid. Funny, the signature of it resembles Coulson. It's just another thing from the long list of pathetic in their lives. Tony gathers everyone and it's the first time she sees him since that time in his apartment. He looks the same. _A bit tired_, she thinks. The guilt clenches her heart even tighter.

When their eyes meet she can see he almost turns away. He doesn't.

"Natasha."

"Rogers."

He shifts, and it is horrible how she can read him so easily like her favorite book cover to cover with coffee stains Stark had made and wrinkled paper Bruce had caused.

"Been doing alright?" He asks, and is this what they've been reduced to? Small talks?

She's willing to take anything she can get.

"Yeah," she's not. "You?"

"Good to hear that," he says instead. She doesn't miss the fact that he chooses not to answer her question. Maybe it is a privilege she has lost. She acknowledges that with a nod because she's sure her throat is not working right.

The briefing starts and she's going to be sent out because of her knowledge about Hydra. She's going with Stark and Steve for the stakeout. Clint, Bruce, Sam, and Thor will serve as reinforcement if anything goes wrong. It's definitely the last thing she wants to do right now.

They don't talk about anything other than the mission; it is worse than not talking at all.

On the bright side, the mission goes to hell in the blink of an eye and she is spared from more of that awkward talk. She doesn't know why she expected anything else.

The whole building is burning and there is smoke everywhere. There are civilians everywhere and not enough time before the structure will collapse. Tony, Bruce, and Thor are fighting the heavy machineries and AIM soldiers outside while she and the others are focusing their energy on saving the civilians.

She is stuck on the first floor of the building and people are rushing by, trying to get themselves out of there. In between the entire ruckus though, Natasha hears—

There is a little girl sobbing, near the far end of the room. Natasha moves quickly to her, but—

She sees the pillar shakes, and the little girl is still crying beneath it, unmoving from her position. If she doesn't move soon she'll get crushed—

Natasha doesn't think. _She reacts_.

She pushes the girl out of the way—

And she vaguely hears someone screaming her name—

Before everything goes black.

.

She smells disinfectant. She hears the beeping of the hospital machines. She wakes up with a pounding headache, a sore body, and a leg she can't move. Her head is heavily bandaged and her right leg is wrapped in a cast. In other words, she feels like crap. At first try, she can't even open her eyes and she moves her head ever so slightly in discomfort.

On her second try, she manages to open them to see a figure sitting on her bedside. Apparently she's not alone. She blinks a few times to clear her vision and foggy mind. Steve is there, resting uncomfortably on a plastic chair next to her bed. There are dark circles under his eyes and his clothes are rumpled, as if he has been wearing them for days.

"Steve," she whispers.

He's a light sleeper, he has always been. He jolts awake and takes in the sight of her already conscious. He leans forward so that his elbows are on the edge of her bed. There is an emotion on his face that disappears as fast as it appears. It seems like relief but it feels more than that.

"Hey," he whispers back.

He stands to do something she can't see from the corner of her eyes. When he comes back he brings a plastic cup and a straw. "Drink," he murmurs. He directs the straw to her mouth, lifts her head a little with his other hand and she drinks the cup empty. She didn't realize how thirsty she was. He pulls it away when she's done.

"A building fell on you," he says after a while. He must have seen her befuddled expression.

"Not an unusual day for Clint, then," she grimaces.

"I suppose."

"How long have I been out?"

"A week."

"That long?"

He fumbles a bit longer than necessary with the plastic cup before he sets it on the small cart near his chair. He sighs and looks back at her. "You need to stop doing things like that."

"Noted," she says, her voice is still scratchy from the lack of use despite of the amount of water she drank. It's not like she enjoys doing it. Suddenly she feels this raw need to say something to him and she—

"Steve—"

He interrupts her before she can say anything more.

"No—listen, I need to say this," he holds a hand up to cut her off. "I thought about this, long and hard. I thought I was not going to forgive you, that—it was too much," he takes a deep breath and reaches out for her hand. She lets him grasp it so tightly it almost hurt. "But then I thought about everything, that if you had told me, I would have never let you done it. That this is you, and you're always going to have secrets—," something in his gaze is keeping her from looking away. "But it doesn't matter, because this is you, and you'll always have good reasons for them and I lost you once, yet now you're here and I—," he grins at her, and if her eyes are a bit glassy he doesn't mention it. "I can't lose you again. I love you. I love you, quirks and all."

She is breathless and it's _him_—"That's corny, Rogers."

He doesn't miss a beat, his grin turning wry. There are still these sharp edges in it but she knows for sure now—it will heal. Not now, but soon. With time. "Do you like it? I only spent two hours writing it."

"Well. What took you so long?"

"Tony taught me Mario Kart."

She snorts.

"Hey," he says, pretending to be offended. But he is laughing and her heart aches with how good it feels to hear that. "I'm good at it."

"Beat my high score and we'll see."

"Oh, is that a challenge?"

She quirks an eyebrow. "Perhaps."

He shakes his head in disbelief. "Of course, the first thing you do after I profess my feelings for you is to challenge me on Mario Kart."

"That was not a confession," she says. "No confession is that corny. That doesn't count."

"Nothing I say is corny."

"You're ninety-five, Steve. Everything you do is cliché."

"Are we seriously back to this argument?" He rolls his eyes. "Remember how long the last one lasts?"

It is the closest she'll ever say to anything like this—"You're lucky I love you too."

She is surprised by the ease when the words slip out of her lips.

He smiles softly. "I know."

They are quiet. She watches as he raises her hand to his lips to kiss her fingers.

She needs to ask him this, a physical need that is almost too much for her to handle. She is terrified to hear the answer. She asks him anyway. Her voice comes out steady, but she has no doubt he can hear the slight tremor that seeps beneath it. She's not the only one who's adept at reading people. "We're alright?"

"Yeah," he cups her face, brushes his thumb against her cheek. There is a small sincere smile on his face. She leans in into his touch. She lets all the emotion that she has buried deep inside her chest runs wild. Lets herself feel everything besides the guilt, heartache, and anguish. She has forgotten how soft he has made her and how she doesn't mind it at all. She has forgotten how he feels about her. She has forgotten how easy it is to _love_ him. He's reminding her now. They're remembering. "We are."

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**End.**

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**Prompt:** 'maybe Nat is pulling a coulson/fury? like they have faked her death and steve is straight up losing is mind and when he finds out he's equaly pissed and happy and unngggh with a happy ending pls'

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